


Well, I guess the plastic does look lovely today.

by possessedradios



Category: OFF (Game), 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 21:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12351096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possessedradios/pseuds/possessedradios
Summary: They might have gotten lost somehow, but at least they're not the only one with a mission.(The Phantom finds themselves in a strange place where everything seems a little ... off.)





	Well, I guess the plastic does look lovely today.

“A- Are you a spectre?”

They … honestly don’t know how to answer this question, at first. They shrug. The figure in front of them backs off a few inches. Wrong answer, then?

“I’m a phantom.”

“Are you going to take our sugar?”

This is odd. They shake their head. “I’m not here for sugar.” They are here for some corporate secrets, but they’re honestly starting to think that they somehow ended up at the wrong place.

The other backs off some more, seemingly more and more distressed.

“I’m not going to hurt–”

The other’s head explodes. There’s no other way to describe it. Their head is there, and the next moment, gone, replaced by some … fountain of liquid. Blood or … something else, they don’t know.

Well. That just happened.

“What the fuck.” They blink slowly and take a look around. They’re definitively at the wrong place. Something here is … not right. Something is … off.

They sigh and take another look at the … person. They’re not quite sure they are human. No human could lose their head and keep standing.

They slowly turn away and start walking.

~

They walk, try to explore.

At some point, everything shifts, violently, and the people disappear. Suddenly. There, one second, gone, the next.

And all the colors fade away. Everything is white.

They stare at their surroundings for a while before continuing on, hesitantly.

~

They’ve been walking through the different … zones for hours. There are few things which confuse them, really, but by now, they are certain they are somewhere they’re not supposed to be, and they wonder how, exactly, they got here, because they really just remember getting off a train. And now here they are, and something about all of these _zones_ , all of these areas, is really, really wrong. They can’t really stick a name to it, but something isn’t right.

They’re somewhere else, now, and the colors are back, and they wonder whether they simply imagined the strange experience from … hours ago.

They are standing in front of some sort of … factory. They are contemplating whether or not to go inside – maybe someone working there could tell them, finally, where exactly they are and how they can go back to where they are supposed to be. Before they can make up their mind, though, the door opens, and someone else is stepping outside.

This guy looks normal, if you stretch the definition of the word enough to overlook his strange clothes – he seems to be dressed in some sort of baseball attire. He stops as soon as he sees them. He’s carrying…

They immediately take their own weapon in hand. A slight touch to the button, and the blade springs open.

The other is carrying a baseball bat, colored a bright red. Blood is dripping to the ground. They lift their switchblade knife, indicate that they, too, are armed and ready to defend themselves.

They just stare at each other for a while, then.

“… You’re not a spectre.”

This word again.

“No. I’m a phantom.”

“Ah.” He slowly lowers his bat. “You’re no business of mine, then.”

They’re still holding their knife and observe the other suspiciously. “Who are you? And what _is_ your business, then?”

“I am the Batter. I am on a Holy Mission.”

“Hm,” they make and slowly push the blade back. “… I’m on a mission too. But I think I … got lost.”

“…”

When the other doesn’t answer after a few seconds, they speak again. “What is your mission?”

“I must purify the zones from the spectres.” He lifts his bat again and gives a slight nod to it.

“… I see.” They have no idea what he’s talking about. “… … The other zones were … looking weird.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything was white. Everything was … gone.” They still think they might have been dreaming. Or hallucinating, maybe.

“I purified them.”

… That was _supposed_ to be like this, then?

“… One of the other people’s head exploded.”

He nods. “An Elsen. They do that sometimes.”

“Ah.” Alright, then. “… And now, what are you doing now?”

“I still have to purify this zone. I don’t know why the Player decided to guide me out of the factory. Maybe you were a disturbance.”

“The … player.”

“Yes. My Puppeteer.”

“Your– What?” He has lost them now. They think they might be tired.

“The one who’s guiding me.”

“You’re … being guided.”

“Yes.”

“By … a puppeteer. A player.”

“Yes. His name is Luca.”

“… And where is he?”

“You can’t see him. He’s just there.”

They are silent, then. They don’t know what to answer, don’t know what to think, even. The idea of having no free will, of being nothing but a puppet, is–

Eery. Weird. Familiar, still. They swallow heavily and put their knife away.

They look at each other again. Suddenly they notice the two … circles which are with the batter, hovering behind him. “… What are those?”

He casts a quick look behind himself. “Companions. They help me in battles.”

“… I see.” Nothing about any of this makes sense. “Can you tell me how I can get out of here?”

“No. There’s only the Nothingness.”

Lovely.

They decide that they really are tired and slowly sit down. How the hell did they get into this situation?

The batter stares at them, then comes closer. In the end, he sits down as well, right next to them.

“And your … player just lets you sit here, now?” they ask, still unsure about how this whole puppeteer thing is supposed to work.

“It’s not that easy,” the batter answers, as if he had just read their mind. “I’m guided by the Puppeteer’s hands as much as he is by mine.”

“…” They don’t think they really like this topic. They don’t think they even get what he’s talking about. “But you still have your mission to fulfill.”

“Yes.”

That’s all the answer they get.

~

“Yeah, but. A baseball bat seems a little ineffective.”

“I know how to use it.”

“… But knives are much easier to use. You know exactly how to use it; how to wound someone, to kill someone.” But then again, someone lost their head and kept standing there, so wherever they have ended up, knives might work differently here. Still… “A bat is very … crude.”

“I know how to use it.”

“… Aaalright. Fair … enough.” They lean back against the front of the factory and sigh silently, eyes fixed on the plastic splashing against the asphalt shore in wave-like movements. “… Nice day,” they say, because resorting to small talk is the only thing they can still think of.

“A day,” the batter replies, voice dry, unmoved.

They wonder if they are a similarly bad conversation partner.

“… Do you have emotions?”

He’s still holding his bat and gestures his head to it. “I have a Holy Mission, and I will fulfill it.”

“… Yeah. Alright. Same, I guess.”

~

They ask themselves how much time has passed. They ask themselves, too, why the batter just keeps sitting next to them, if he’s on this holy mission. They ask themselves if his player just doesn’t give a fuck, maybe. If the player isn’t there, not physically, then why should he care about the spectres inhabiting the zones?

“… Can you ever really rest? If you’re being guided–”

“I’m here to purify.”

“… But everyone needs rest. Even me.”

“You’re–”

“–human. You’re too, I guess. You look human.”

The batter doesn’t answer. He lowers his head, pulls his baseball cap into his face.

They think they might have said something wrong. They shrug, say, “Sorry.”

No answer, once more. They think they might like him. 

They concentrate on the plastic again, stare at the monotone movement of it, listen to the sound, wave-like yet again, they rest their head against the factory wall and eventually close their eyes.

~

More time passes. They don’t know when, but at some point, the batter must have fallen asleep. He appears very much human, with his head resting at their shoulder, with the soft up-and-down movement of his chest, with his even breathing.

Hm. Guess _that_ happened, as well.

They could shake him awake, they think, could move away, but the feeling of something so undeniably real in midst of all this weirdness is almost comforting, so they just let him be, just let him rest.

“Let him sleep,” they say, vaguely out loud. They don’t know why they do that, don’t know why they should care. They don’t even know if the player’s even able to hear them. But the batter just sits there, head leaned against their shoulder, so he might have.

They look at the plastic again. Actually, this isn’t too bad. Their own mission can wait a few hours longer, they suppose – the spectres won’t just disappear, and neither will the corporate secrets. Sitting here like this, it’s easy to ignore that this whole world is off.

**Author's Note:**

> Let these two messes of almost-human-beings rest, I'm begging you.


End file.
